


And Yet...

by seohoverse



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Idk they're dumb, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Strings Attached, Or so they say :-)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seohoverse/pseuds/seohoverse
Summary: No strings attached.That's the promise they made.And Seoho is okay with that (or so he thinks).
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Lee Seoho
Comments: 19
Kudos: 97





	And Yet...

**Author's Note:**

> I pulled this story out of my ass last night and somehow finished it today. I read this over a million times and edited it but I gave up on my last time editing it so if there are any mistakes, please excuse them cause I'm really tired and I've given up on everything.

Their deal was simple: Their relationship was meant to strictly revolve around sex. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

When they first discussed it, Geonhak made everything clear. Some days, Geonhak wasn’t free, and other days, he wouldn’t even bat an eyelash if Seoho showed up uninvited. Boundaries were set, drawing evident lines between them that neither of them had permission to overstep. After all, there would be consequences. 

For as long as Seoho has known him, Geonhak has always been the type to keep his business life and personal life separate, careful to keep them from blending, bleeding into one another until the start of one and the end of another are nowhere in sight.

To Geonhak, Seoho has always strictly been _business_. 

And Seoho is okay with that. Asking for too much always results in gaining less, and he’d be lucky if Geonhak even decided to keep him around even when he tries to squeeze his way into Geonhak’s personal life. 

When Seoho thinks about it, he barely knows Geonhak, only having a bit of knowledge regarding a few of his interests. Seoho has spotted the game console sitting underneath Geonhak’s TV whenever he comes over, right before Geonhak has his hands all over him and directs his attention to his lips instead. He catches a couple of the familiar titles on the tattered, worn-out spines of the books sitting on Geonhak’s shelf in his room, the pages wrinkly and bent from the years of use, being read over and over.

Many of their interests align, and parts of Seoho has tried to bring it up, but the thought of striking up a casual conversation with _Geonhak_ is enough to have his tongue turning to lead in his mouth and feeling patchy. 

Bonding is for _friends_. And he and Geonhak—they are not friends.

They never have been, they never will be.

There is a fine line between friends with benefits and actual friends, and Seoho and Geonhak’s relationship sits on the former half. They’ve never breached it, and Seoho believes they never will. Sometimes, they get close to that line, so close to the point where it begins to fade. It’s during those moments where Geonhak gets a little too touchy, not in a way to rile Seoho up, but to irritate him, to mess with him. It’s during those moments where he cracks jokes, an innocent, luminous smile taking over Geonhak’s face as Seoho stares, mesmerized—as if he’s never seen a human smile before. During those moments, Seoho wonders if he’d just imagined that line, if it had even been there in the first place.

But the moment they’re about to breach that boundary—they don’t.

It’s a silly game of tug of war they’re playing. It happens blindly, neither of them realizing it, or maybe neither of them wishes to acknowledge that there’s a tension between them. A tension that neither of them comprehends, one that neither of them plans on ridding themselves of. 

And Seoho always believed it was okay. If Geonhak ignored it, why shouldn’t he?

He’s done it since the first day, that day he and Geonhak first met and he’d accidentally brushed his hand up against Geonhak’s. His first instinct was to flinch as if he’d been burnt, but Seoho had felt it. That spark, the _tension_. And after that day, the tension only seems to grow, until Seoho slowly grows stifled, until he feels faint at the mere mention of Geonhak’s name.

But that tension, Seoho has come to realize, isn’t bad. It leaves him feeling tense, his fingers itching and chest clenching, his heart pounding erratically against his ribcage, but he learned it isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Almost like it’s _right_ —as if Seoho’s air is being restricted, while simultaneously feeling like he’s sucking in oxygen for the first time in forever.

That tension builds whenever Geonhak cups Seoho’s cheeks in a way that shouldn’t be endearing, but it is. When Geonhak holds Seoho’s gaze for too long, unconsciously runs his thumb over Seoho’s cheekbone and lets his thumb linger there before he snaps out of it, Seoho feels it. 

That tension.

And it grows, right before Seoho’s eyes, until it’s looming over him, staring him down until his throat feels dry and his head spins. 

Seoho doesn’t remember their arrangement saying anything about coming with side effects.

And for some reason, Geonhak hasn’t shown signs of experiencing the same side effects.

When this had first started, Geonhak had said the key detail. Something they’re obligated to keep in mind.

“Remember, you can’t go around catching feelings for me. There are no strings attached.”

At the time, Seoho had glared at Geonhak in disbelief. “Now, what makes you think I’d catch feelings for _you_? Pretty cocky of you, don’t you think?”

Geonhak shrugged, and in that split second, Seoho witnessed a soft twinkle in his eyes, one that contrasted the stoic gaze he normally maintained. “I don’t know, it could happen. You never know.”

“Oh, get off your high horse. You seriously can’t expect me to fall for _you_.”

Tilting his head to the side, Geonhak let a tantalizing grin take over his face. “Why, got standards or something?”

As a matter of fact, Seoho didn’t. 

Not once had he put thoughts into that because he couldn’t disappoint himself if fate decided to pair him with someone that didn’t fall into his categorized standards. It’s a real headache, per se. Seoho would never sentence himself to such agony. He preferred walking into it blindfolded, and whatever happened, happened.

Besides, a little surprise just added to the thrill. 

But Seoho has always been known to get under people’s skin for fun, jabbing them where they’re most vulnerable and stripping them of their defensive armour. Getting them riled up until he got hunted down with the most convenient object—which always happened to be the object closest to them.

So Seoho mirrored Geonhak’s grin and leaned against the railing of the balcony, holding Geonhak’s stare.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if he had imagined the falter in Geonhak’s gaze. 

“Maybe, but you don’t exactly fit my expectations. Should I say your presence is, what’s the word, underwhelming?”

It was funny at first, watching the smile slowly slip off Geonhak’s face before it morphed into a look of disbelief and irritation. “I’m _what_?” 

But even when the conversation fell into an irrelevant twist, one thing remained the same. It is a promise they vowed to keep, one they promised not to modify. 

_No strings attached._

It was a simple promise, and Seoho was okay with that. Besides, he isn’t the type to grow attached easily. Initially? Maybe. But Seoho learned his lesson after the number of people that walked out of his life, cutting off all ties, had increased. 

Growing attached bears with it the lingering, plaguing doubts, the ones that fear you’ll be abandoned again, the ones where you realize you can’t imagine a life without them anymore, you don’t know where you’d be if it weren’t for them. Those attachments, Seoho learned, are the riskiest. It’s a mess of tangled vines, one that you’re, unfortunately, trapped amongst. Wrangling your neck, it’s similar, if not the same, to sentencing yourself to your own doom.

For that matter, Seoho trained himself until even the numbness of watching those wandering out of his life faded into nothing. 

And yet…

That tension Seoho bears smothers him, and he comes to the mortifying realization that he’s _grown attached_. He would love to say he’s attached to the good sex because, really, it’s partially the truth. 

But it’s Geonhak whom Seoho has grown attached to.

After so many years of desensitizing himself to what he refuses to admit is his biggest fear, it’s chosen to latch onto Geonhak, of all people. It’s tied Seoho to him, and in the end, Seoho always feels his feet direct him to Geonhak. The attachment swells, pins Seoho down and grapples at him until he submits and lets himself be tugged back to the one with whom everything is strictly _business_. 

Seoho has long since accepted that he would never be more to Geonhak than an acquaintance, at best. Their rules were set straight, and Seoho wouldn’t have accepted if he couldn’t handle them. He _can_ handle them. He _can—_

So why is it that, as time passes, he grows more stifled, until that tension no longer feels pleasant, but instead feels like a curse that he has to shoulder on his own?

He’s also accepted that the distance between him and Geonhak can never be covered. No matter how close Geonhak is to him, no matter how tight Seoho holds onto him or presses their bodies close, Geonhak will always be far away. Too far for Seoho to reach. 

Their business lives clash, melding into one another, but their private lives are different. Their private lives are parallel, always side by side, but never meant to touch. 

And Seoho has accepted that, too.

And yet, he currently stands in front of Geonhak’s apartment, cold and shivering, dripping wet from the rain outside that had managed to wash away the forming edges of his tears. In the dimly lit hallway, though, there is nothing to wash out the blurring tears that burn his stinging eyes. From somewhere, there is the ticking of a clock, slow, agonizingly _slow_ , until Seoho’s nails are digging into his palms and his head spins.

_Tick tock. Tick tock._

It slows. Seoho doesn’t remember if seconds always took an eternity to pass. 

_Tick tock._

Time has always run past Seoho, so quick that he always has a hard time catching up, probably missed a few things here and there that he couldn’t pay attention to. 

But not today. 

For once, time comes to a screeching halt, dragging its legs so _painfully slow_ that Seoho feels suffocated, feels like he might drive himself crazy. 

He already rang the doorbell a minute ago and hasn’t heard anything since then. He anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and in his haze, he wonders if he’s made a mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here. The last time he checked the time, it was 2:47 AM, and it’s been a while since then. Geonhak might not even be awake right now, and even if he is, he isn’t obligated to open the door for Seoho. Besides, their relationship is _strictly business_ , which means Seoho has no reason to come all the way here, has no reason to seek Geonhak out. And yet—

The door opens, and Geonhak stands there, clad in his sweatpants and a white t-shirt that always has to be a size too small— His glasses sit on the bridge of his nose and, _God_ , Seoho is so ashamed. He doesn’t see it, but he can feel the way Geonhak takes in his appearance, eyes wandering down to the sandals Seoho had managed to slip on and back up to where Seoho’s glasses crookedly sit on his face.

He wonders if they’re broken. He can’t tell. 

“Seoho?” Geonhak murmurs and the shame burns brighter in Seoho’s chest now. It inflates, coils uncomfortably, and Seoho feels his throat tighten until his words come out strangled.

“I’m sorry… I know it’s late and I— Shit, I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have come here. I probably just woke you up and—” He shuffles, his body swaying before he sets an unsteady foot down to keep himself from tipping over. He barely hears himself when he speaks again, or maybe that’s the ticking in his head. “I just didn’t know where else to go…”

Geonhak regards him one last time, waits for him to utter out something else, but Seoho can’t. Admitting it out loud would just result in Seoho losing face, but he’s always felt tongue-tied whenever he was in Geonhak’s presence, always felt as if his rights to speak were revoked, leaving him mute before him. It’s funny because Seoho clearly remembers saying Geonhak’s presence was _underwhelming_. It seems fate really bit him in the ass for that.

But this time, it’s not because of Geonhak. He doesn’t have enough strength to talk, his chest burns and aches as if he just ran a marathon, and he’s thirsty. And tired. So, _so_ tired. Geonhak’s watching him, and for once, Seoho doesn’t feel pressured. On the contrary, he feels soothed, and he wonders if Geonhak will let him fall into his chest, if he’ll just hold him—

“Hey, stop standing there and come in.” Seoho still hasn’t lifted his head, but Geonhak gently tugs on the sleeve of his worn hoodie to usher him in, and with the remaining strength in his legs, Seoho makes his way to the couch in Geonhak’s living room with the help of the arm around his shoulders. 

And in the deepest part of his mind, he believes, _wants to believe_ , that the arm holds him tenderly because Geonhak’s concerned, because he made it past the boundaries Geonhak set between them.

But then again, Geonhak might as well be concerned after Seoho just showed up at his apartment past 3 in the morning, concerned as a good acquaintance should. 

“How about you wait here while I get you some water,” Geonhak mutters. It’s not a question; it’s a statement, meaning he doesn’t expect to face any objections—not that Seoho would. 

While Geonhak is away, Seoho gets the chance to glance around the otherwise dark room, save for the bit of white light from the moon streaming in from in between the half-closed curtains. Seoho is familiar with the room. He’s been here numerous times, sat on this old couch with its tears in the cushions numerous times, to have the image of it imprinted in his head.

And yet, it looks different, _feels_ different. Unfamiliarity creeps under Seoho’s skin as if he accidentally wandered into the wrong apartment. Everything is the same, nothing new, nothing replaced, but Seoho feels out of place. It’s easy to blame it on the fact that it’s probably because Seoho wandered here early in the morning without even so much as a heads-up.

But it isn’t, and Seoho knows that.

It’s Seoho—the reason why nothing feels right. 

Nothing has changed in the cramped apartment barely made for two, except Seoho. Any other day, he would’ve walked in here, stressed and in need of a getaway—something to distract him, take his mind off the turmoil in his head and the world that exists outside of the four walls of Geonhak’s bedroom. Some other days, his boredom and desperate need to find something to do would be his fuel. 

Today is not like other days, clearly.

And yet, there are no traces of vexation on Geonhak’s face when the couch dips on the other side of Seoho, and he gets handed a glass of water. It’s lukewarm, not enough to defrost the iciness coating his fingers, but he still accepts it gratefully and takes a sip. Or at least, he tries to, though the moment he feels the water run down his throat, he finds himself tipping the whole glass back until there isn’t a single drop left.

He doesn’t want to know what Geonhak must think of him right now.

The reality of his situation sinks in the moment he drops his hands and lets the cup sit in his lap. 

Geonhak shouldn’t be silent, but he is— _excruciatingly_ silent. He should be asking questions, but he isn’t. Seoho doesn’t think he can handle it—the look Geonhak must have on his face, regarding him with _anything_ : concern, anger, confusion. 

When a hand comes down to rest on his knee, Seoho can’t help it; he flinches. The reaction probably would’ve caused anyone else to retract their hand, but Geonhak doesn’t. Instead, he gives his knee a squeeze before letting his hand trail upwards until he’s intertwining their fingers.

_No strings attached._

And yet, somewhere in the midst of the unleashed mayhem inside of Seoho, he’s reminded of the tension that rests between them—the tension that blinds him. And only briefly does he wonder if, maybe, there is more to them than their simple arrangement. 

The thought comes as quickly as it goes.

Geonhak’s hand is warm, a complete contrast to Seoho’s red-tinted, cold fingers, and with the excuse of seeking more warmth since the water could only provide so much, he tightens his hold on Geonhak’s hand.

Geonhak doesn’t pull back or release Seoho’s hand. He waits patiently, waits for Seoho to break the silence at his own pace, and even after everything, Seoho feels the beginning of a smile tug the corners of his lips. 

In the end, when Geonhak realizes Seoho only plans on letting the silence drown them, he sighs, but it’s not one of exhaustion or annoyance. There’s no weight to it, but the assumption that there _would_ be a weighted sigh is what has Seoho’s shoulders tense. “So, what’s up?

He says it so casually like he’s spiking up a normal conversation, like those days Geonhak lets Seoho stay over for dinner and they begin chatting over everything and nothing. 

And really, Seoho couldn’t ask for anything more.

He isn’t sure what he would’ve done if Geonhak had demanded an answer out of him.

When Seoho’s silence stretches on, Geonhak says, “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, you know. I understand.” 

This side of Geonhak—the side of him that just _understands_ —is one Seoho will always be thankful for.

_“If you don’t want to tell me, it’s okay. I understand,” Geonhak says from behind him, breaking the silence, and Seoho’s head whirls around to meet his gaze. “Something’s bothering you, isn’t it? I can tell. You seemed a little tense today.”_

_From where he’s sitting on the couch, Seoho glares at Geonhak. “Are you insulting my skills in bed?”_

_A smile ghosts Geonhak’s face, grazing his lips and— Seoho doesn’t remember staring at Geonhak’s lips. “I don’t know, I’m just saying, you seemed distracted today. Something on your mind?”_

_Seoho mutters, “Why do you care?”_

_“What makes you say that?”_

Of course, I care _, Geonhak’s gaze seems to say, loud despite not being voiced, stern, honest, yet disappointed that Seoho would think so lowly of him—that Seoho would think Geonhak doesn’t have an ounce of decency in him to care about Seoho and what thoughts he could be overtaken by._

_And while Seoho feels his gaze waver as he desperately tries not to break eye contact, he feels the thick tension between them thin out, thinning until it’s nothing more than a mere thread hanging between them, thinning and thinning, on the brink of snapping._

_So, Seoho breaks the eye contact first, as much as he didn’t want to be the first to back out._

_Breaks it before the thread between them snaps._

“Later…” Seoho manages to croak out through the gaps of his teeth and the clawing rawness of his throat. “Maybe, I’ll tell you later.”

"Later," Geonhak echoes and Seoho hums in reply.

And Geonhak accepts that answer, just like that, as if it’s _that_ easy. And maybe it is, maybe Seoho’s the one who constantly has to further complicate things. Maybe it’s his tendency to overthink, to overanalyze, to put too much heart into everything when he only gets bits and pieces of it in return, maybe it’s—

“Hey,” Geonhak mutters, squeezing Seoho’s hand, and he scoots closer until their thighs are brushing (Seoho wishes he had the willpower to shove down the stuttering in his chest that is no longer due to the cold). “Don’t do that.”

“…Do what?”

“Overthinking. You always make this face when you have a lot on your mind.”

The implication of his words is so clear, Seoho feels like he’s just had the air knocked out of him.

Geonhak’s been _paying attention to him_. 

This whole time Seoho believed Geonhak never gave him a second thought, and yet…

He’s memorized Seoho’s expressions. No one has ever found Seoho to be an easy book to read; Seoho himself doesn’t believe he’s an easy book to even pick up. But Geonhak… just picked a crucial part of Seoho apart, and it makes Seoho wonder just how much more Geonhak knows. Has he been studying him? How much more does he know that he isn’t meant to? Does he have Seoho’s habitual behaviours categorized, too? Labelled?

Suddenly, there are hands cupping his cheeks, and he’s forcefully turned to face Geonhak. And it’s overwhelming. So, so overwhelming because Geonhak’s staring at him like… like he’s _concerned_ . Like he’s chosen this moment to cross the fine line of mere acquaintances that continues to rest between them. His thumb runs over his cheekbone, and he lets it linger there. Unmoving, yet tender, almost _fondly_. 

“Crying doesn’t suit you,” Geonhak lightly laughs, running his thumbs under Seoho’s glasses, under his eyes, to wipe at the wetness that still clings to his face. “You look much better when you smile or when you laugh. I like when you laugh; it’s adorable. Or when you crack your stupid jokes in the middle of sex and ruin the whole moment.”

And Seoho can’t stop himself; he laughs. 

It’s dull, his voice rubbed raw after all the crying he did, and yet, it doesn’t hurt the way Seoho thought it would.

It feels right—like the hands that still cup his cheeks. 

And when Geonhak leans forward and plants a kiss on Seoho’s forehead, Seoho’s eyes flutter shut, like _this_ is right, too. 

The line between them blurs.

Seoho ponders, once again, if it was even there to begin with.

When Geonhak redirects his lips to Seoho’s cheek, Seoho’s eyes remain shut. And when he pulls away until the tips of their noses are barely brushing, Geonhak is regarding him with _that_ look. One that’s unlike his frequent gazes, one that’s soft, warm, tender, almost like he’s cherishing him, like he’s a sight to behold. One that, for some reason, Seoho isn’t a stranger to.

He’s seen this gaze often. He’s seen it resting underneath Geonhak’s lust-blown pupils, seen it during those moments he was on his knees with his mouth stuffed, when Geonhak would caress his cheek. He’s seen it during those moments Geonhak would ask him for cuddles, his gaze simply melting, and despite their relationship, Seoho feels treasured. Like he’s someone of importance.

And that gaze—it wanders down to Seoho’s lips until he’s blatantly staring, but he’s reluctant— _Why is he reluctant?_

“Do it. Kiss me.”

“Huh?” It seems to be the trick to snap Geonhak out of his trance, and maybe Seoho’s exhaustion is causing him to hallucinate, but he swears he sees a pink tint on Geonhak’s cheeks. “Seoho, you’re tired.”

“And?” Seoho breathes. “What does that have to do with anything? It never stopped you before.”

“Seoho,” the way Geonhaks says his name is weighted, “you seem like you’ve been through a lot today. I don’t want to make it seem as if I’m forcing myself on you in your state of vulnerability. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want, we can ju—”

Seoho yanks Geonhak closer by the collar of his shirt, closer until their lips are barely grazing. Until Seoho feels his heartbeat ring in his ears, as if this is their first time ever doing this. “Please.” The plea slips out naturally, breathed against Geonhak’s lips. “I think— I think I need this right now.”

Geonhak hesitates again before he lets out the breath he was holding. “Okay.”

One of the hands that were previously cupping Seoho’s cheek snakes to the back of his skull as Geonhak kisses him, pressing him closer, closer, until Seoho’s hands grapple at Geonhak’s biceps for something to anchor him. Something to keep him from floating away. In his haze, Seoho faintly hears the clang of the cup falling onto the floor. 

It’s soft, and Seoho knows he probably shouldn’t, but he can only interpret the kiss as warm affection, viciously, overwhelmingly, washing over him. And yet, Seoho feels soothed, weakened and slowly, bit by bit, taken apart until he fears he’ll crumble, completely bare and helpless. 

Geonhak’s gaze rests the same when he pulls away, picking Seoho apart in the most pleasurable way possible, and Seoho just knows his pulse has become nonexistent because he can’t feel it anymore. Satisfying his prior desire, Seoho lets himself fall forward until he’s crashing into Geonhak’s chest, his ear pressed up against Geonhak’s heart, and he feels Geonhak’s arms encircle his waist, holding him close.

The line between them continues to blur.

“Hey,” Geonhak mutters, sweet and barely articulated, “I don’t know what happened today or why you showed up at my place, but you can always tell me anything, you know that, right?” Seoho didn’t. “I’ve never seen you like this, so I don’t know what could possibly upset you so much that it would reduce you to this state, but—”

“I got kicked out.”

It escapes him easily like he’s been waiting to say it this whole time. Maybe he has. Maybe he just needed the right timing, the moment his barriers would come down and leave him vulnerable. 

But the burden on his chest doesn’t exactly feel lighter. 

The silence that envelops them is deafening, and Geonhak has gone rigid against Seoho. The cold dread that sinks in has Seoho regretting ever saying anything. _You can always tell me anything_. But Seoho isn’t sure if he was ready and he just— _Shit_ , he just blurted it out without meaning to, and what if he made Geonhak uncomfortable? What if—

“Temporarily or…?” Geonhak’s voice thins, trails off. 

Turning his head, Seoho buries his face in Geonhak’s chest. “Probably until everything cools down. And I don’t know when that’ll be,” Seoho whispers. 

Now that he’s a bit more levelheaded, he realizes that wandering here after getting kicked out probably insinuated that he would have to stay here for a day or two or three. And Geonhak— What if Geonhak doesn’t want him here? After all, they’re not supposed to be anything beyond the boundaries of intimate partners. Seoho isn’t supposed to be anything more to Geonhak than that, and he isn’t obligated to do anything for him, which means that he is also allowed to kick Seoho out if he so wishes. 

Seoho could’ve gone to Youngjo’s house, or Dongju and Hwanwoong’s shared apartment, but _no_ , he had to come here, of all places. 

And yet, the arms around him tighten, pulling Seoho impossibly closer until he ends up half-sitting in Geonhak’s lap. He relocates his face to Geonhak’s neck, buries his face in the exposed skin and lets Geonhak’s familiar scent and cologne wash over him. 

“Then stay here.” The words are murmured against the shell of Seoho’s ear. “You can stay here as long as you want. Besides, my bed is big enough for two, but I guess you already know that.”

It’s funny—how quickly the burden on his chest lightens, just like that.

“I don’t want to burden you,” Seoho says.

He sinks farther into Geonhak. It’s probably supposed to be awkward—how pliant he’s become to touches—but it’s not. It’s funny—how Seoho fits so easily against Geonhak, and he realized that now even after so many nights of falling asleep in the same bed. 

Geonhak’s eyebrows are furrowed in puzzlement when he pulls away a few inches to study Seoho’s face. “Why would you think you’re burdening me?”

Seoho… doesn’t know how to answer that, shockingly. What is he supposed to say? That he thinks their arrangement should strictly stay away from their personal lives because that’s the impression he got when they first started? Because he doesn’t believe Geonhak would care about him beyond everything they’ve established? 

And yet, he doesn’t have to say anything because Geonhak answers all his questions for him. “Hey, I know our relationship is… complicated, to say the least—” He laughs when Seoho visibly grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not here for you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, either. We don’t have to limit our relationship the way you think.”

And just like that, the line between them blurs completely, leaving nothing in its place, as if it had never existed. 

As Seoho gapes, Geonhak grins widely—grins until a pleasant, breathy laugh bubbles out of his chest. When it became Seoho’s favourite sound, he doesn’t remember.

Even when Geonhak’s laughter dies down, he has a soft smile on his face, and he continues to regard Seoho with that gaze, that gaze that is so gentle, so… _loving_. Like Seoho is someone precious to him. Against his will, his heart contracts strangely in his chest, but it’s ironic how it feels easier to breathe when the air has grown so stifling.

“I really want to kiss you again,” Geonhak says nonchalantly. 

“So?” Seoho retorts.

“So…” Geonhak hesitantly echoes.

“Why aren’t you doing it? _Coward_.”

It stings when Geonhak pulls him so harshly, their teeth clash before their lips do, and Seoho winces. But it feels different than their previous kiss; the same feelings are there—the warmth, the softness of Geonhak’s lips, the no-longer borderline affectionate caressing as Geonhak holds Seoho tenderly in his arms. 

And yet, for a reason Seoho can’t quite put his finger on, it feels different. But it feels right. 

It’s suffocating, how Geonhak’s gaze hasn’t changed in the slightest this entire time and, instead, only seems to grow stronger. And Seoho’s stomach coils, he feels faint, lightheaded because he doesn’t know what to make of any of this, doesn’t know how to process that the line between them, their boundaries, has completely faded.

They ventured into hazardous territory, and yet, Geonhak doesn’t seem fearful at all. Rather, he looks relaxed, like he’s well within his element. 

And Seoho understands.

The side effects Seoho believed came with their hastily built relationship—Geonhak experiences them, too. And yet, their reactions to it are totally different. They both processed the side effects differently, but they both found themselves in the same place, right before one another. 

Even with different ways of getting here, they found each other.

“Geonhak—” _I think I love you_ , Seoho doesn’t say, doesn’t _dare_ to say. 

Not yet, at least.

Just like that, Seoho realizes that maybe modifying, even going as far as to break, their promise isn’t so bad. Seoho oddly feels like he sinned—being unable to keep the promise he vowed to, the promise he held so close to his heart and served as the barrier between him and Geonhak. Their lives that were meant to be parallel, always so close, yet incapable of ever meeting, begin to bleed together. Just like that.

And it feels right. 

“Hey, Seoho, I have something to confess,” Geonhak mutters, uncertain, almost cautious. “I think… I broke our promise.”

_No strings attached._

That’s what Geonhak had said.

And yet, Seoho isn’t the only one who’s sinned. 

The tension between them snaps.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, please feel free to leave kudos and comments :DD


End file.
